


Lonely in Your Nightmare

by rhien



Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Angst, Fangirl-era canon, First Kiss, Fisticuffs, M/M, Pre-Carry On, Present Tense, SnowBaz, and I'm sorry, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1384339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhien/pseuds/rhien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz is being followed.<br/>It’s dark in the catacombs under Watford, of course, pitch dark even, ha bloody ha, but that’s never a problem for Baz. Vampires can see in the dark. Not to mention smell.<br/>And no one else smells quite like Simon Snow, his apple-scent threading through the damp and mold and dust.<br/>It must be past midnight, and Snow’s been following Baz for hours tonight. Again.</p><p>**</p><p>Starting from the canon <i>Simon Snow and the Five Blades</i> excerpt in <i>Fangirl</i> (hardcover p. 127).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely in Your Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [periodtalkwith](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=periodtalkwith), [zebrabelly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=zebrabelly).



Baz is being followed.

It’s dark in the catacombs under Watford, of course, pitch black even, ha bloody ha, but that’s never a problem for Baz. Vampires can see in the dark. Not to mention smell.

And no one else smells quite like Simon Snow, his apple-scent threading through the damp and mold and dust.

It must be past midnight, and Snow’s been following Baz for hours tonight. Again.

Snow is angry. Crowley knows, Baz recognizes _that_ scent, too, after four years.

The truth is, Snow is always angry. The scent of it lies heavy in their room, hot and oppressive as gathering thunder, prickling against Baz’s skin. Sometimes it feels as airless as sitting at the bottom of a pool, water piled and pressing atop him; sometimes his head falls forward, slumps under the weight of it. Vampires are cool to the touch, always, and sometimes Baz would swear he feels Snow’s anger (and magic) sizzling like a friction burn across the back of his neck. Sometimes he leaves, sometimes he stays out all night because he can’t bear it anymore—just his roommate’s presence makes Baz feel too hot, makes his stomach roil, he can’t stand it, and the fact that most of the other students practically venerate Snow and his tiresome, heroic face, that he can do no wrong and no one understands what it’s like to have to actually _live_ with the bastard—and then _he’s_ angry, because it’s his room too, and why should _he_ be the one driven out by that hot, pounding, raging reek?

_Why is he even here? Why can’t he just leave me the fuck alone?_

He doesn’t have to let Snow find him. He has every advantage—sight and smell, hearing and a map in his head—he’s been down here so many more times than Snow, than anyone maybe (isn’t he the lucky one?), and he knows every corner and bend, every gate and doorway. He hunts rats, vile-tasting little beasts, and they are far quicker and quieter than his clumsy roommate.

He can hear Snow’s shoes scraping on the stone, hear the slight echo of his breathing, rough and frustrated; he can see the dim glow of his torch approaching (and is it an electric torch? it _is—_ sometimes Baz can hardly stand the way Snow clings to the gandry world—the outside, non-magical world—instead of just casting a light spell or summoning a fire like anyone else; he _must_ do it on purpose, he _must,_ the stubborn git, why else wouldn’t he just _use his magic,_ the magic Baz can feel crackling off him, whenever they’re in the same room?) and it’s nothing to slip a little further along the passage, to slide around a corner, to stay in the shadows.

He’s done it a dozen times this year alone: has _allowed_ Snow to follow him, then watched him pass by, or silently crept up a few yards behind him and turned the tables for a little while—stepping in unison, holding his breath when Snow pauses. Stalking him. Like he stalks the rats. And he would be just as easy, _so easy,_ to catch, to snap, to drain—quick and messy and then dry and crumpled on the stones.

If Baz ever killed humans. Which he doesn’t. Though sometimes it’s hard to remember why not. Especially when it’s his infuriating, idiot roommate, and it’s _not_ their room, no Anathema protecting him here, Baz could do _anything…._ Snow must have a death wish to come trying to catch _him_. Well. He doesn’t know, about the vampire part, no one does. But it doesn’t make him any less stupid. They’ve had plenty of duels or, more often, fistfights on the grounds, in the halls. (They had one earlier today, before fencing lessons, and Baz’s ribs still ache a bit.) Baz always holding back, of course. Because he doesn’t kill humans, he doesn’t, and it would be spectacularly unwise to start with the Mage’s Heir, regardless.

He doesn’t have to let Snow find him, ever. But maybe tonight he wants to be caught.

He must, because when Snow pokes his head through the doorway of one of the larger chambers, Baz just stands there, on the far side, leaning against the hollow-ridden wall. Lets the light of the torch find his feet, lets it flick up his dusty uniform to his face, because Snow seems to be trying to blind him with a sudden beam of light right in the eyes, the prick.

“Baz,” Snow says (and why did Baz ever tell him to call him that? oh yes, it was first year, back before he knew what a colossal tosser the great Simon Snow would turn out to be), and he sounds suspicious, and also like he’s trying not to sound surprised, but at least he lowers the torch-light slightly.

“Snow.” Baz studies him carefully. He has no jumper or jacket, and his white button-up sleeves are pushed up to his elbows; how is he not cold? He hasn’t even drawn his wand, Baz notices, but he’s not about to drop his guard—just because Baz could dart across the room and snap his neck before he could even reach for his wand doesn’t mean that Snow’s not dangerous. Especially because he’s _not_ going to do that, dammit, he’s not going to reveal himself.

It makes everything harder, always, the holding back, the having to think ahead so as not to give anything away, and he’s so _tired_ lately; and what was he thinking, letting Snow catch him here, without even a second exit from the room? He can smell him, apple, pine and rage, rather a welcome change from the dank and the old-death smell of the catacombs, but Baz should probably go before things escalate.

He shifts, and Snow tenses, takes a step nearer, demands, “What are you doing down here, Baz?”

Baz tries to restrain an eye-roll, but some things are just too much to ask. “Taking in the sights, Snow. What are _you_ doing down here? Shouldn’t you be in bed, resting up for your next thrilling adventure?”

“I know you’re up to something.” Even in the dim reflected light, Snow’s eyes are revoltingly blue and clear and intense, and it makes Baz want to squirm.

“Of course I am, Snow. Just because I’m the only person in this school who doesn’t worship you, it naturally follows that I _must_ be doing something nefarious. Your logic is impeccable; Professor Benedict will be so very pleased, no doubt you will ace his exam this year.”

“They don’t—they don’t _all—_ ” Even Snow can’t seem to stomach this lie, and it makes Baz smirk. “It’s not my fault,” he mumbles at last, dropping his gaze.

Baz laughs unpleasantly. “But you enjoy it, of course, as well you might.”

“I don’t,” says Snow, petulant.

Baz doesn’t dignify that with an answer—of course he does, who wouldn’t? This humble heroic act got old sometime back in second year, but Snow still clings to it like a child with a blanket, and Baz doesn’t have time for it tonight. Instead, he leans up from the wall, and starts toward the door.

Only one step though, and suddenly Snow is uncomfortably close. He’s left the torch on the ground, pointing up at the ceiling, and his wand is out, and Baz freezes.

“I know you’re plotting something, Pitch,” he says, and the anger is back, and Baz can almost see magic crawling on his skin. He imagines it would be like lines of tiny lightning, red and flickering up his hands and arms, raising his hair and turning the dark blond to auburn. “And you’re not leaving till you tell me what it is.”

“There’s no plot, you idiot.” Baz tries to pour as much scorn as possible into his voice, while slipping his hand onto his own wand handle. “I’m just—” he falters for the smallest fraction of a second; there’s no way he’s telling the truth here: not about the rats, and not about the message he got last week from someone named Count Vidalia about something hidden in the catacombs either, “—going to bed. Now get out of my way.”

Snow steps closer, between Baz and the doorway, and lifts his wand higher. “I told you—”

“Get your wand out of my _face,_ ” Baz hisses, all out of patience at last, and shoves Snow backwards.

And Snow truly is a gandry fool, because he actually _throws his wand to the ground_ and tackles Baz, shoulder slamming into Baz’s chest and running him against the wall, and Baz is so surprised he doesn’t stop him, is so surprised that he loses his grip on his own wand. It flips across the room, clattering on the stones, and maybe the temptation is better removed anyway, Baz thinks, because now he needs to concentrate on fending off Snow’s jabs and punches before one of them (likely Snow) gets really hurt. And sure, he doesn’t object to landing a few himself, but they already did this once today, and it’s awfully late, so he’s mostly trying to maneuver himself around to make a break for the door. 

But Snow won’t let it go, keeps getting in the way, keeps getting in close and even grabbing onto Baz, and apparently he’s noticed that Baz is mostly on the defensive, because he says, almost like he’s impatient, “Fight back properly, you bastard!”

Baz laughs bitterly, and deflects him again. At least he can enjoy how it irks Snow, even though all he really wants is to slam his roommate against one of the walls and pound into him, sink his fist into his stomach, batter all his frustration and exhaustion into Snow’s muscles, make somebody else feel this, too.

But needling him will have to suffice. “Twice in one day, Snow?” he sneers, as he jabs and evades. “Whatever will the Mage say? His star, his darling Heir, brawling like a hooligan, after curfew this time….” 

Snow grimaces, and manages to get a grappling hold on him again, and they almost trip, falling against the wall again. The bones on the carved stone shelves rattle.

“Oh, I forgot, he won’t say a thing,” Baz wheezes, dust in his throat, clawing at Snow’s arm half around his neck. “Because some people can do no wrong, apparently, no matter how many rules they break. He’ll probably congratulate you for beating up that nasty Pitch boy when you see him for tea tomorrow.”

Snow’s arm is twisting, muscles taut, but he manages to contradict him anyway, panting, “He doesn’t… and I barely ever see him.” Even breathless, his voice is resentful and… yearning?

But this is such a bald-faced lie that Baz feels fury swell in his head, like it’ll burst out his eye sockets, and he breaks away by elbowing behind him viciously, and wheels on Snow. He can feel his own magic crackling, though he’s always pictured it as blue, even in anger.  He doesn’t believe it, not for a moment, but he says anyway, “Well, if you lie this outrageously to _him_ , I’m hardly shocked if he can’t stand to be around you.” 

He should have known better, because of course _that_ enrages Snow so much that he moves faster than normal, surprises Baz a little: he grabs his jumper, and his foot tangles with Baz’s ankles, and they fall hard to the floor, Snow on top. It knocks the wind out of Baz, and he neglects to duck away as Snow swings again, hitting Baz right in the mouth. The pain is so bright and sharp that for a moment Baz loses his grip, feels his fangs coming out, and he shoves Snow away, right off him, and scrambles to a sitting position, breathing hard, regaining control. For just a second they’re both quiet, regrouping.

“You’re just as much a bully as he is,” Baz spits. His lip is swollen and split, and there’s blood in his mouth ( _again_ , and it’s disorienting for a moment, longer than a moment really, even if it’s his own). “Like father, like son.” It’s just as well his wand is across the room; transferal spells wouldn’t be helpful just now anyway.

Snow is rubbing at a cut on his cheekbone, and that may or may not be the beginning of a black eye above it, but he freezes up, and stares, eyes wide, then suddenly narrowing. “What?”

“What?” Baz sucks at his lip; it’s only a small split, but it hurts just the same. And the blood is still disorienting.

“What did you just say? About the Mage.”

“That he’s a great thumping bully,” Baz snaps at him. His hair is a disaster, full of dust and sticking to the sweat on his temples and he shoves it back impatiently. “And you’re following right along in his footsteps, he’ll be so proud. Fathers always like little carbon copies for sons—believe me, I would know.”

A long moment of silence, and then suddenly Snow snarls, “You’re such a fucking liar, Pitch,” and Baz is taken aback, by both the words and the vehemence.

“Tut tut, _language,_ Snow. I didn’t think the great Mage’s Heir even knew such foul words.” Baz says it lightly, mockingly, but it’s true, because for whatever reason Simon Snow almost never talks like this, at least not that Baz has ever heard, not even when they were fighting the chimaera back in third year, and if there’d ever been a time for it…. 

But Snow is staring daggers at him ( _stakes,_ he thinks, a little hysterically, _it should be wooden stakes_ ) and snaps, “Take it back.”

“’Take it back’?” Baz mimics incredulously. “What are we, five? I can’t ‘take it back.’ It’s not my fault you’re a brainless git who can’t see something so patently obvious that—”

“Shut up!”

Baz is watching him, but he can’t understand why he’s so angry. This isn’t news to him, is it? That the Mage is a tyrant and a bully, and that Baz thinks this, and says it regularly—that can’t possibly be a surprise. He keeps talking, almost idly, as he tries to recall his exact words of a moment before, tries to figure what Snow is still reacting to. “But maybe it’s not your fault either, I suppose you can’t help being brainless, just like you couldn’t help being abandoned as an infant by your precious, noble Mage—”

Snow makes a dreadful, choked sound of broken rage and jumps back on him, and this time he’s a veritable whirlwind of fists and elbows and feet, and fending him off is suddenly no laughing matter.

“Don’t make me break your nose again, Snow.”

“As if you could,” Snow grunts, and pummels Baz in the ribs, right on top of that bruise from earlier, and that’s it, he’s finished mucking about.

Baz makes what he has to admit is an actual effort, and flips him over onto his back. He’s straddling Snow’s hips, to keep from being bucked off, and he digs his fingernails into Snow’s wrists, holding them down, but clearly the boy doesn’t know when he’s beaten, because he’s still trying to flail free. In a minute he’ll be forced to head-butt the idiot, and he’s grimly certain that Simon Snow’s head is _far_ harder than a football.

“What’s your _problem_ , Snow?” And Baz is actually _panting_ , he had no idea that Snow could be so persistent, or strong, though he supposes it shouldn’t surprise him that much. It’s probably a hero prerequisite.

It’s definitely not a surprise that he’s practically incoherent with anger. “You’re such a—and I’m not—and he is _not my father._ ”

He shouts the last breathlessly, and then it’s like the fight goes out of him; his head falls back and his body goes nearly limp against the flagstones.

For his own part, Baz gapes at him. This is the issue? How can Snow not have known this? Baz wonders. You’d think it had never even occurred to him, which is just absurd. The soppy way the Mage always looks at him, all the remarks about Snow’s eyes and a woman he knew once, the rumors everywhere, he must… but clearly not.

He’s still holding his wrists down, though he’s eased up on the nails. Fingers on his bare skin, he can feel Snow’s magic, chaotic and swirling now. “You… you really didn’t know, did you,” Baz says, slowly, cocking his head to one side. His hair is hanging down, just barely brushing Snow’s cheeks, that’s how close their faces are.

Snow turns his head away and says, thickly, “There’s nothing to know. It’s not _true._ ”

Of course it’s true, Baz almost says, but then he realizes—Simon Snow is all but _crying_ , he’s _shaking_ under him with the effort of holding it back, his face is red and his blue eyes are screwed up and shining with tears that haven’t quite spilled out yet.

 _He wants it to be true,_ Baz thinks, and the certainty of it is as swift and clear as a lightning strike. _And he’s afraid it isn’t. And maybe afraid that it is._

If he really hardly sees the Mage, incomprehensible though that is to Baz, if he isn’t lying about that (and here Baz feels almost dizzy: _what if he isn’t lying about any of it? about how much he hates when people stare at him, about having hardly any friends, about wishing he could live at Watford all year, about having trouble with magic, what_ if?)… and everyone knows that he was left _(by whom?)_ at that gandry orphanage as a baby….

And now he realizes—he’s too hot again, his stomach is roiling, like everything is wrong. He can’t stand to be this close to Simon for another second. His chest aches, and he—he’s _sorry_ , dammit, so sorry, he wants to get his wand and fix that cut by Simon’s eye, he wants to pull him into his lap and put his arms around him, he wants to lean down closer and… _no. Oh no._

He can hardly move, but his hands loosen their grip on Simon’s wrists and he says, “Snow….”

Simon throws him off, and he skids backward on his arse, up against the closest wall. Simon ( _oh Crowley,_ Baz groans in his head, _“Simon”? when did that happen? how do I make it un-happen?_ ), Simon follows as if tethered to him, grabbing Baz’s shoulders and shaking them, hauling him up to his feet, and shouting in a cracking voice. _After all,_ part of Baz’s mind thinks oddly, distantly, _we’re only fifteen, after all…._ And it strikes him as somehow desperately sad.

Simon bangs him back against the wall; he’s shouting, “It’s not true, take it back, take it _back,_ ” and Baz thinks, _I can’t, I’m sorry._ And he has the sinking feeling that he doesn’t just mean tonight.

Simon’s hitting him again, and though the blows are weak, unfocused, it still doesn’t feel great on his already bruised sides. But Baz lets him. Lets him have one, two, three punches, and then he catches his wrists again and restrains him, holding his hands up between them. Simon struggles for a few seconds, and then slumps, his forehead falling against his fists, crushing their arms between their two chests, and leans there, gasping for a minute.

Baz just stands, lets him lean, holds him up. If he lets his own head droop, he thinks, dazed, just a few inches, his nose would be buried in Simon’s hair, that awful, fantastic hair, breathing that heavenly smell…. _Gods, get a grip, Pitch,_ he tries to tell himself. He tries to think about the crackle of their magic instead, red and blue lightning prickling across his skin, but that isn’t helpful either; it only makes him want to try to taste it, and _no no no._

Simon straightens up at last and tugs at his hands (Baz doesn’t let go), glares at him. “I hate you,” he says.

Baz snorts, ruefully, but his stomach twists like it’s trying to turn inside out, and he hates this, _hates_ it. “Yes, yes, I’m well aware, Snow.” He shifts his hands, holding both wrists in one, admittedly less secure grip, and pats Simon’s cheek patronizingly. “You don’t exactly hide it.”

He doesn’t mean to let the touch linger, he really doesn’t, but Simon’s skin is warm, and it’s just a moment too long… but Simon starts to snatch his hands away and Baz grabs his wrists yet again because he is completely done with being a punching bag for the day. This time Simon seems to have got his wind back, and he keeps struggling, though he shows no signs of stepping away, and Baz can feel his heat up and down the whole length of his body. He should push him away, but he’s not letting go, he’s _not_ getting hit again. 

“Crowley, Snow, I’m _tired,_ can we call off the wrestling match yet?”

“ _No,_ ” says Simon, and lunges at him. Probably he means for Baz to let go and jerk away, but Baz is too surprised to do anything, and then their arms are crushed between them again, and Simon… Simon’s mouth is on Baz’s. Baz isn’t sure he would call it a kiss exactly, since he’s biting his lip painfully, and the next second he’s pulling back and Baz’s lip is bleeding _again_ , and dear Aleister, is this night ever going to end?

Simon is flailing again, trying to land another punch, and saying, “Just let me go, you lying git, you _win_ , alright, I hate you, why can’t you just—”

“Fine! Fine, just stop hitting me,” Baz says, and lets go. Simon takes a step back, rubbing his wrists, glaring, and muttering.

“Lying, mad, rotten—”

Baz’s stomach twists again, _gods, this is so hopeless, he’ll always hate me, and why couldn’t I just keep being happy about that?_

So, because he’s a total idiot, he snaps, “At least _I’m_ not in complete denial.”

And Simon has that look again, that terrible, aching pain in his eyes, and Baz wants to kick himself.

“Snow….”

Simon twitches as if he’s going to turn away, fists clenched by his sides; Baz reaches out a hand abruptly and so uncertainly that it ends up on Simon’s cheek and ear, awkwardly, the tips of his fingers brushing the curls behind Simon’s ears. He would’ve thought that Simon would shove him back, but he freezes, and so does Baz, for just a second.

“I’m not lying,” he says, because he’s stubborn, but then he offers, “but it’s just rumors. I mean, how would I know.”

Simon’s eyes are closed, but he hasn’t pulled away, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and the sound makes something in Baz’s chest twist and snap.

He reaches out his other hand, and cups Simon’s face in both of them, and says, “I’m sorry.”

Simon’s eyes open, and Baz can’t stand it, he _can’t_ , he knows that look, he’s worn it himself, and Simon should never, ever look that miserable, and he doesn’t think, he just leans in and kisses him.

His lip is swollen and sore, and Simon’s are a bit rough and chapped, and he tastes slightly of suppressed tears and snot, but Baz could not possibly care less about any of that. He only presses in, softly, and gently runs his thumbs over Simon’s cheeks, and draws Simon’s lower lip between his so he can taste and feel it, so soft and warm. His chest aches with such tenderness that it feels like his heart is just one huge trembling bruise, and he’s not sure he can endure it. Who ever thought any of this was a good idea?

He can feel Simon’s sharp intake of breath at first, a flutter of air against his cheek, but he doesn’t pull away, and after a moment Baz can feel the pressure of a palm against his chest, and hesitant fingers, curling warm around his wrist. Every place their skin touches, Baz can feel a low fizz of magic.

Still, he doesn’t push harder, doesn’t demand more. He just kisses him, and softly strokes his face, and kisses him, soothing, attempting comfort, as if he can somehow draw the misery out through his lips, as if he can somehow apologize for causing it, or for years of stupidity and needless enmity, however impossible he knows that to be. True comfort can’t possibly work from someone you hate, but Baz has to try anyway.

Finally breathing demands some serious attention, and Baz knows that’s it, so he pulls back, drops his hands, and looks into Simon’s face. When Simon opens his eyes, he doesn’t look miserable anymore, or angry, but he does look confused; he sort of flinches backward, and grabs torch and wand, and scuttles away without a word. For a moment Baz just stands there, listening to his retreating, uneven footsteps, breathing lingering apple-and-pine amid the bones-and-mold, and then he smacks his head back into the wall (it hurts), and slides down to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest. He touches his split lip with his fingertips, and bangs his head back against the wall again. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he tells himself. His whole body aches, and everything is stupid and impossible.

It’s tempting to consider just running off into the Veiled Forest and never coming back. A totally reasonable option, surely? But when he sees that Simon has accidentally taken _Baz’s_ wand, instead of his own, he knows he’ll have to return it to their room before he can become a hermit or join the navy or what-have-you.

Baz clutches his head and drops it onto his knees, and he can’t suppress a small groan. _Crowley._ Stupid doesn’t even begin to cover it. Somehow, without noticing, he’s fallen for his roommate, his enemy, Simon-Oliver-bloody-Snow, and _oh, all the faery hells, what am I going to do now?_

 

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for [periodtalkwith](http://periodtalkwith.tumblr.com) and [zebrabelly](http://zebrabelly.tumblr.com) because of [important reasons.](http://periodtalkwith.tumblr.com/post/73019010838/deservingporcupine-zebrabelly)
> 
> I apologize most sincerely for the use of present tense, I will endeavor not to do it any more; I don’t think it suits me.


End file.
